


Stealing

by kissedbysummer



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 17:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19446583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissedbysummer/pseuds/kissedbysummer
Summary: Jon Targaryen, after dying, reclaiming his true family name, and winning back Winterfell, decides to steal Baelish’s daughter, the same way Bael stole Lady Stark, and the same way people thought Rhaegar stole Lyanna— through the gift of song.





	Stealing

**Author's Note:**

> No one ever really comments on Jon's singing voice, in the shows and in the books, but a LOT of the fanfics here imagine him as a rock star of some sort, and it makes sense because Rhaegar, but here's the fic based on that idea

_The Great Hall in New Castle_

The Starks arrived in White Harbour. Of course, not all of them came— A Stark must always stay in Winterfell, and while Arya was too young to go, Sansa also volunteered to look after Bran— but Ned Stark brought his wife Catelyn and the two Stark brothers. Robb was jovially greeting the Manderly daughters, distinguishable by their hair color, while Jon hung back, eyes downcast to the floor. Already at a young age, Jon knew the shame of being a bastard, the shame that should not have been his in the first place.

Ned felt ashamed of having to pretend that his sister’s son was his bastard, and that Catelyn treated him differently. Growing up beside his trueborn son, Jon enjoyed his friendship, yes, but he remembered how hurt Jon was when Robb told him that he could not be lord of Winterfell, and how hurt Jon was when he had to explain his parentage. _It was better this way, to learn how to divert attention from him_ , Ned tried to reassure himself daily. But it was also why Ned was surprised when, in the feast offered by the Manderlys, egged on by that green haired daughter, Jon stood up, in the middle of the hall, doing the thing Ned was least expecting him to do.

Jon sang.

He sang of old legends, of knights and maidens, of kings and queens before them. He sang of White Walkers, of snarks, of winter defeated by the realms of men. He sung of old Starks, of the Night’s King, fallen in love with a maiden with frosted blue eyes and pale glass skin. He sang of the wolves leading the pack, reigning in winter and protecting their own. He sang of the first dragons, escaping the fires of Valyria. He sang of Aemon the Dragonknight, bravely protecting his sweet sister Naerys. He sang of Jenny, dancing in the ruins of Summerhall.

The feast stilled in their revelry, his voice captured the attention of even the gruffest of men. Maidens shifted their eyes from the golden boy, the red wolf of the North, and shed a tear for the sad voice touching their hearts.

As the usually stoic boy transformed, caught in the melodrama of his song, Ned’s eyes glazed as he remembered a night years ago, where a wolf maid teared up at the young dragon’s playing, his fearsome visage softened by the gentle strumming of his harp, and his violet eyes, full of sorrow. A song of ice and fire.

_Did he get this skill from Lyanna_ , Ned mused, _or Rhaegar?_

It was too dangerous for him to play this. While he was protected by his Stark look, people still speculated that perhaps, Jon was not Ned’s bastard, but someone else’s. Whispers murmured about Brandon, perhaps his skill in blades could be explained by his father? Or Benjen, maybe he was sent away due to deflowering a maiden, and isn’t the bastard as serious as the young pup?

Or worst of all, they still speculate what was actually true: that Jon was Lyanna and Rhaegar’s son.

And his skill in the harp and his voice betrayed the promise Ned made to his sister.

_Promise me, Ned_ , Lyanna cried from the past, _promise me_.

He did not want to take this away from him. Jon deserved a better life, a life with his real parents, loved and safe. He deserves to be able to live a decent life, not the life made to protect him. If music helped him deal with the hardship that his lie gave him, then shouldn’t he be able to keep it?

And yet,

Ned did not say a word when Catelyn scowled, and told Jon to meet with her after the feast.

He did not say a word when Catelyn pulled the harp away from his son, and forbade him to use any of his brothers’ instruments.

He did not say a word when Jon teared up silently, and ran to his guest room.

It’s a shame, Ned later muses, that Jon never got to express himself through music, unlike his fellow older siblings. Arya, Bran, and Rickon were still too young to start playing music. But, while Robb will never have the patience for the harp, he can play the lute and the harmonica, and, Ned grimaced as he remembered Robb being able to carry a tune even when drunkenly going along with Theon when he found them in Wintertown. Sweet Sansa often sang around Winterfell, charming the household while playing the harp. Ned wasn’t surprised, as this was promised by the love of songs she shared with Lyanna, but her Tully looks reminding Ned of a younger Catelyn shyly played a love song when Brandon was courting her.

After the young Starks grew up, the years passed by, and after the ancient castle in the North burned to the ground, eventually, the small folk forgot that the Bastard of Winterfell sung too.

* * *

But Sansa did not forget.

There was an ancient legend of a child of the forest, who used to live in the same Weirwood tree that stands on top of the highest point of Winterfell.

This child, whose name was long forgotten by time, was known to be playful. He danced with the animals, from the smallest of butterflies to the scariest of bears, his laughter calling them to follow him. He climbed each and every tree that sprouted in that forest, blessing their branches with fruit.

But his voice was said to be the sweetest voice there is. He knew all the songs there is, even making the tunes of the songs now, stolen by men and butchered with the Common Tongue. It is said that he alone knew the notes to the song that pleased every living creature, for it was in a language older than the Old Tongue, with words that only his voice could sing. It is said that he visits only the best singers, only when their voice could harmonize with his.

Sansa pleaded with her true siblings (and Theon) to go with her to find that child, to sing that duet, but Bran and Rickon were too small to roam around forests, Arya was stuck in an embroidery lesson with Septa Mordane, Robb and Theon found the Godswood too eerie.

Forced to go alone, Sansa decided to bring her harp with her, knowing that she played the best in the harp, at least in her family. She sat on the rock where her father usually sits to pray and clean his broadsword. She sang as sweetly as she could, starting with the songs from the Seven.

After singing all the songs she knew from the Faith, Sansa realized that perhaps it would not do to sing in praise for the New Gods, knowing that the children praised the Old Gods like her father. She bit her lip, trying to remember the old songs.

But it rained, and she slipped near the lake, nearly ruining her dress with the mud. Her harp became wet, and the strings became damp with lake water. She pulled herself closer to the ancient Weirwood tree, sitting beside the blood teared, sorrowful face. The shade of the Weirwood beckoned her to lean on its trunk. The breeze welcomed Sansa into her arms, and the swaying of the branches, the gentle hum of the rain, and the falling of the leaves lulled her into slumber.

Sansa woke to the sound of jovial singing, birds chirping, and the summer sunlight streaming down her face. She pushed herself up from the trunk, red hair slipping out of her braid, and falling down on her shoulders.

“My featherbed is deep and soft, and there, I’ll lay you down,” the voice started, loud and clear, sounding as if he was free in the forest where they were.

_This sounds familiar_ , Sansa thought, _but who could it be?_ She paused, then realized, _Perhaps it’s the child. Perhaps he’s coming back home_. Giddy with excitement, she listened, hoping to join the voice that grew louder and louder, joyfully singing in the godswood.

“…And how she smiled, and how she laughed,” the voice continued, “The maiden of the tree…”

_The child’s voice is deeper than I expected_ , Sansa thought, _but at least the song he’s singing is something that I know_.

“But you can be my forest love,” Sansa sang back sweetly, “And me your forest lass.”

The rich, deep voice paused. “Sansa?”

She _knew_ that voice.

“ _Jon_?!”

“Sansa!” Jon rushed to the clearing, and seeing Sansa alone, harp and dress still damp from the rain, he unclasped his cloak, and placed it on her shoulders. “Where have you been? It’s been hours, and everyone’s been looking for you—”

“I never knew you can sing so well,” Sansa interrupted, “You should sing more.”

Jon paused, and while walking back alongside her to the castle, answered, “Your lady mother forbade it. She said that I should keep to myself, and that no lord would want to hear a bastard sing.”

Sansa frowned. Sure, he was a bastard, but surely an exception can be made for his lovely voice?

“Perhaps no lord would,” Sansa said carefully avoiding talk of her mother, “But I’m sure beautiful maidens would swoon at the sound of your voice.”

Jon spluttered, and blushed deeply. “I, uh—”

“Is there a maiden in mind?” Sansa asked, teasingly, “You should sing to her, properly court her.”

“There’s no maiden,” Jon said, “And I only sing here, where no one can hear me.”

Sansa’s eyes softened. “I won’t tell Mother that you sing here. Perhaps we can sing one last song?”

Jon looked at her, smiled, “You do have a great voice to sing with.”

He started to sing the Maiden of the Tree again. Sansa gleefully joined him, and after they separated in the courtyard, and Mother rushed with their servants to clean her, this sweet afternoon was kept as a little secret in Sansa’s heart. She did not hear Jon singing again, and feared that that would be the last song she would ever hear him sing, as he left for the Night’s Watch, and she left for King’s Landing.

* * *

_The Eyrie_

“The dragons are here, Alayne,” Sweetrobin whispered to her, clutching at her sleeve.

It was a gorgeous sight. Three dragons, coming from Alayne’s childhood stories, circled the Eyrie in its wonder, and sharply landed on the courtyard. Already present are the new Queen’s soldiers armored in steel and dragonglass.

A woman slid down the biggest dragon, while her companions slid down their mounts as well. Robin gaped at the Targaryens, especially at the woman who stepped forward to meet Littlefinger. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled together in multiple braids almost touching the floor, attached with tiny silver bells. The dragonglass crown atop her head signaled her status. Her white and red furs trail after her. Her violet eyes looked up and down at Alayne, almost as if assessing her.

Alayne gulped, and gave a small curtsey.

“You are in the presence of Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” Missandei said, “the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Lady of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, regent of the realm.”

A man with the same hair, but cut short, then stepped forward. He wore a gold crown, wrought in the shape of a dragon circling around his pale blond curls. He was less serious than his aunt,and his purple eyes gleamed as he took Alayne’s hand and kissed it. She demurely curtseyed again.

“King Aegon of House Targaryen,” Missandei said, “the Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm and Lord of Dragonstone, regent of the realm.”

Then, _Jon_ suddenly steps forward, and Sansa is shocked for a moment that she forgets to be Alayne. _It’s him,_ she thought, _he’s alive_.

But it’s not the same Jon she remembered. He wore what her father would have worn, Stark furs across his shoulders, and a dark high neckline and epaulets decorated with white direwolves with ruby eyes, the same as the direwolf that stands beside him. But aside from the change in clothing, his straight back, the sureness in his movement, and the confident expression was a far cry from the bastard who had to shy away from court. Atop of his head was an open bronze circlet with nine iron swords— the crown former Stark kings used to wear. Jon remained stoic, as Missandei told them his titles.

“And lastly King Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen,” Missandei said, “the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the King in the North, Lord Protector of Winterfell and the North, the Nightslayer and the White Wolf, regent of the realm.”

_King in the North_. He kept his title.

“This is Lord Petyr Baelish,” their servant said, “Lord Protector of the Eyrie, and the Vale of Arryn.”

Littlefinger stepped forward, and bowed. “And this is my daughter, Alayne Baelish.”

Alayne stepped forward and looked at Jon. His grey eyes showed no feeling, as he looked at their hosts.

“My lord,” he said, then rested his eyes on Alayne’s, “My lady.”

_He seems cold as the Wall he went to_ , Alayne thought. But his white wolf darted forward, and nuzzled his head to her hand.

“It seems that Ghost likes you, my lady,” King Aegon said, his purple eyes alternating from Jon to Alayne. Littlefinger raised an eyebrow, but did not comment.

“Welcome to the Vale, your Graces,” Littlefinger responded, “Be welcome beneath my roof, and at my table.”

“We thank you for your hospitality, my lord,” the Queen responded, as they took the offered bread and salt and ate it, then the three of them walked forward. They entered the hall, where servants welcomed them with food spread out in the table.

“Please join us in our feast for you,” Littlefinger said, “You have traveled for so long, you must be hungry.”

“A feast? Already?” King Aegon inquired, “Surely it would be better for us to change into more suitable attire?”

“Your attire is fine, as winter still falls upon the Vale,” Littlefinger responded, “And the lords of the Vale are most eager to hear about your victory in the Wall, and your recovery of the long lost Targaryen.” Littlefinger eyed Jon in suspicion. Jon did not give any indication that he heard any suspicion, or that he heard anything at all, as he gave his cloak to the servants.

“Yes, it’s a cause for celebration,” Queen Daenerys agreed jovially, “That Rhaegar’s son has returned to us, safe and sound.”

“Perhaps,” Littlefinger said, eyes darting from Jon to the silver-haired Targaryens, “King Jon can indulge us with a song, just like dear Prince Rhaegar. My dear daughter does love a good song.”

Jon shook his head, but King Aegon roared in delight, “Come on, brother! Perhaps a song would cheer up your brooding face!”

The lords and ladies laughed, and one of the servants handed him a harp for him to play.

Jon reluctantly took the woodharp, and stood near the thankfully closed Moon Door.

“Apologies, my lords,” the White Wolf rumbled, “It has been long since I last practiced, but I hope you’ll enjoy it all the same.”

He held his harp, and started plucking to a song. Alayne’s mouth dropped, as she recognized the song he was playing.

“…For you shall be my lady love,” Jon sung, shyly glancing at Alayne’s wide blue eyes, while ignoring the ladies swooning at this line, “and I shall be your lord. I’ll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword.”

The band joined him in song, playing along to the jovial tune of love for a wild maiden. Nearly all the lords and ladies were on their feet while Jon continued playing the Maiden of the Tree. Ser Harry pulled her on the dance floor, holding her close as they jived to the song. Mya Stone danced along, taking the hands of the other servants while she was at it. While he was still seated at the dais, Sweetrobin banged his cup on the table, slamming to the beat of the harp. Even Aegon gallantly offered Daenerys a hand, and from the dais, they stepped down to join the revelry. He led Daenerys in dance, the tiny silver bells in her hair jingling along with the beat of Jon’s song. But Alayne’s blue eyes still were drawn to Jon’s grey ones, and Jon’s eyes followed Alayne as she danced with the lords.

She couldn’t help but sing along, laughter and delight infectious. Almost everyone in the hall was dancing and laughing and sharing stories and laughter and smiling as if they have not suffered any wars or famine or hardship. _Almost_.

Alayne glanced at her father, still on the dais, gripping his knife tightly, knuckles whitening, eyes darting from her to Jon. She knew how it looked like. If she had her red hair, it would be a reminder of Brandon Stark entranced by Catelyn Tully, or worse, Ned and Catelyn _Stark_ reborn. A Stark stealing his Tully love. But he could not say anything, not without offending the dragon lords.

When the last night of their stay ended, and the Targaryens left, Alayne closed the door and leaned on it, smiling to herself. She clutched the dragonfly necklace that she kept wearing these days, that reminded her of the old days, that reminded her of _Sansa_. _Perhaps she can go home soon_ , she thought.

But there was a knock in the door, when the castle was asleep, and…

“Sansa, it’s Jon.”

Sansa’s eyes popped out, “How did you know?”

“Do you think I’ll ever forget the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard?” Jon asked, bewildered at the mere suggestion, “I’m stealing you.”

“Stealing?”

“What the Free Folk do for the people they love,” Jon gazed at Sansa in reverence, eyes telling her what she needed to know.

“And do you love me?” Sansa asked, as the little girl who dreamed for a prince, looking back at a king.

“I do.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Placing a cloak around the long brown haired girl, a dragon lord whisked her away to the courtyard, where a green scaled dragon waited. The dark dragon king and his dark-haired lady flew to the skies, and not another word was heard from Alayne again.

* * *

_Winterfell_

“Jon, it’s a bit too late for the girls to stay up at night.”

Jon looked up at his wife’s voice, and smiled sheepishly at her raised eyebrow.

“Aye, of course,” Jon said quickly, tucking his daughters in their furs, “They’ll be sleeping soon, I promise.”

The twins giggled. Lyanna, the girl who looked exactly like a younger Arya with violet eyes, said sweetly, “Mommy, don’t you want to hear daddy sing?”

Sansa smiled, and went closer to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, “Of course, sweetling. But daddy needs to wake up early for court.”

“Why don’t you sing together?” asked Alysanne, the facsimile of Daenerys, but with Tully blue eyes twinkling at her mother.

King Jon and Queen Sansa looked at each other and smiled. _Ned Stark and Catelyn reborn_ , the small folk often would whisper in the rebuilt Great Hall of Winterfell. As they laid down, encircling their children in a warm embrace, Sansa promised, “One last song, my dears.”

“My featherbed is soft and warm, and there I’ll lay you down,” Sansa started, “I’ll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown,”

“For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord,” Jon answered, softly, voice lulling the children to sleep.

They sang, eyes twinkling, remembering the night he stole her back, and the lovely afternoon they shared in the summer.


End file.
